


If I love you – I am terrified

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, Emotionally hurt Illya, Fear, Getting Together, Heartache, Hurt Napoleon, Inspired by Poetry, Lack of Communication, Love, M/M, Minimalism, Napoleon has Issues, Poetry as structure, Protective Illya, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 03:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13204758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: He should regret it. Again. And again. He is not strong enough.





	If I love you – I am terrified

**Author's Note:**

> [Poetry by Margaret Atwood](https://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2011/05/11/we-are-hard-by-margaret-atwood/)

 

_Does the body lie_

_moving like this, are these_

_touches, hairs, wet_

_soft marble my tongue runs over_

_lies you are telling me?_

 

_Your body is not a word,_

_it does not lie or_

_speak truth either._

_It is only_

_here or not here._

_-_

They’re in Italy. Venice, this time. Napoleon curses the nature of their work because in this case, it means they can never set foot in that hotel in Rome again. Rome as a whole is off the table for at least a year. They can’t risk setting a pattern. Patterns are predictable. Predictability is dangerous. That’s how the CIA got him, in the end.

Instead, they’re stuck in a shabby safe house, a mile from the city where the mission will take its place.

The air is hot and thick, and even the night doesn’t bring relief from the heat. Napoleon’s room is cooler, but as they’re waiting on orders the walls start to choke him. He needs to go somewhere to breathe.

Illya is asleep on the second bed, the blankets are pushed on the ground. His back is bare. He’s only wearing underpants and still his skin is flushed in the heat. Sweat trails around his shoulders and Napoleon wants to taste it.

But he should never. Illya is not like him. Their partnership is carefully constructed through trust and space and Napoleon shouldn’t feel like this about him.

Illya shouldn’t feel this either. But Napoleon suspects he does. There is desire. Nothing more, nothing less. He’s seen the long looks, the stilted conversations, the unnecessary touches. He’s seen Illya’s jealousy when Napoleon flaunts around stories of a recent lay. It took a long time to realise, but Illya wants him, and it’s never been harder to resist.

Illya twists in his sleep. He turns on his back, his legs fall open. His pants are too thin.

Napoleon swallows.

It’s barely a sound, but Illya wakes up anyway. His eyes are full as blinks into the dim light. Napoleon can see the pieces fall into place– the blush that takes over Illya’s face isn’t from the heat anymore. Illya knows why Napoleon is watching him. He knows what he wants.

Illya pushes out a slow breath, and spreads his legs gradually, pushing one finger underneath the waistband of his pants. Napoleon licks his lips and he should put a stop to this, but Illya’s breathing is labored and heavy and they both _want_ and Napoleon doesn’t have the energy to say no. Because they should know better. This will weaken them, eventually.

(This will break Napoleon. Eventually.)

Illya’s naked and lovely and tantalizing, and Napoleon _wants_. Oh god.

He gives in. Kisses Illya’s skin, salt hot marble, but soft underneath his touch. His hands tremble as Illya pushes back, pulls him closer. The air is too hot and their touches burn, but Napoleon wants to feel it, wants Illya burned into his skin. Napoleon bites and sucks and finds Illya’s lips and licks into his mouth. Illya moans and surrenders underneath him. Napoleon feels it then. The cut through his chest. He will never recover from this. This will grow and grow until it ruins him from the inside out.

One time. One time. One time. Napoleon repeats the mantra inside his head. Only one time. Take it, take everything. But only one time.

Their breaths mix; moans shared. They come, close and together.

Napoleon should have gone outside that night.

And he should feel regret.

He didn’t.

And he doesn’t.

_\------_

_Of course your lies_

_are more amusing:_

_you make them new each time._

 

_Your truths, painful and boring_

_repeat themselves over & over_

_perhaps because you own_

_so few of them_

_-_

He should regret it again. And again. And again. He is not strong enough.

“I can’t do this,” Napoleon whispers, every time. After. Illya’s hand stills in his hair, or on his hip, or on his jaw. He stops, he looks. He knows what’s coming.

“We can’t do this, Peril,” Napoleon says. They can’t. One of them will die, sooner or later. It’s their job. It’s who they are. They can’t do this.

Illya kisses him. Once. Deeply. He doesn’t say anything. They’ve fought enough about this. It ends the same, always, anyway. Napoleon feels sick. Illya’s face is blank as he slips out of bed.

And every time, Napoleon wants to call him back. He wants to plead for a forever that doesn’t exist. He presses the back of his hand against his mouth and silences himself.

Illya dresses, quickly. He had left his clothes by the door; he expected it. Napoleon doesn’t know why he keeps coming back. He doesn’t know why Illya goes with him when his resolve breaks again, after one, two, three weeks (two days, an hour. He can’t do this.) Napoleon doesn’t know why Illya only leaves when asked.

_He knows. He knows. He knows. He’s terrified._

He can’t do this.

They keep doing it.

_\------_

_A truth should exist,_

_it should not be used_

_like this. If I love you_

_is that a fact or a weapon?_

-

Napoleon lost track of time and reality. There only is pain.

Once, there were three guards, two interrogators and one leader. Napoleon doesn’t remember his name. One of them loves knives. Loves pushing the tips into Napoleon’s skin. Napoleon has been screaming for a long time. The door is ripped open and Napoleon keeps screaming until the knife disappears. Until someone destroys everything.

Now, the room is red. Dripping.

Oh god.

“Peril.”

Illya stands in the centre, shaking. Bodies strewn around him. An earthquake in wait.

_“Peril.”_

His eyes are dark. But blue, still. A stark contrast with the blood that covers his face in streaks and stripes. Savage.

Napoleon wants to wipe it away, uncover the man left behind.

_The man he – loved – loves – terrifies him. The man who loves him._

This is the beast, and he does not listen to reason.

A man groans on the ground. His legs are broken. Throat is slit. Slowly dying. His blood on Illya’s - the beast’s - hands. Illya aims his gun and shoots.

There is silence then. No one is breathing. Napoleon forgot how to.

Maybe Illya will kill him now. Napoleon feels shame at the relief that thought causes him. Maybe the beast doesn’t recognize him, and free him from this hell.

Napoleon doesn’t want to be here anymore. His arms are flayed, his face is punched into a pulp. He can’t walk. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be okay again.

Illya came for him too late.

Maybe. The beast will kill him now.

“Peril,” Napoleon rasps. “You can shoot me, too.”

Illya straightens, and Napoleon prepares for release.

A hand, wet, red, blood, on the edge of his jaw.

Illya growls. His voice is dark.

Napoleon smiles, creanes his head back, closes his eyes. It is beautiful, in a way. The end of it all by Illya’s strong, sure hands. _Hands that touched him gentle. That loved him with purpose. That treasured every inch of him. Oh god._ Napoleon is glad.

But the hand does not tighten. It stays there.

“I can’t hurt you,” Illya says, broken. The beast is gone. “I refuse.”

Napoleon wants to cry. Wants to feel relief, or disappointment, or anything other than the fear that consumes him. So he laughs. He laughs through the split in his jaw and the cuts down his throat. He laughs as Illya’s blood red lips crash with his. He laughs until everything goes dark and Illya’s pleading is the only thing that remains.

He laughs, deep inside, floating.

Because he doesn’t know what else to do.

_\------_

_We are hard on each other_

_and call it honesty,_

_choosing our jagged truths_

_with care and aiming them across_

_the neutral table._

 

_The things we say are_

_true; it is our crooked_

_aim, our choices_

_turn them criminal._

-

“I don’t know why you let him treat you like this,” Gaby says casually. Her eyes are trained on the Slovakian paper in her hands, but Illya knows she can see his face in her periphery. He keeps his expression carefully blank and sips his coffee. It does no one good to be ambushed so early in the morning, but he’d been expecting it for some time. Gaby is protective after all.

“You deserve better, Illya.”

Her voice is too earnest, too warm, and maybe she’s right. But Illya’s always been bad at lying; the twisting of truth has never been natural to him. His heart decided on Solo when his Father’s watch landed into his hands, and Illya accepted it along with the scars he would bring. Pretending is a waste of his time. Napoleon is dangerous, but he can handle it. What they have is enough.

Gaby lowers her paper when Illya doesn’t respond. There is a change in her casual demeanor. Her eyes are narrowed.

Illya sighs. She won’t let this go without an explanation, and Illya isn’t sure if he can. But he can try to show her.

Illya lets his eyes find Napoleon in the fray of the market. He’s haggling with an old lady over some leeks. His face split wide in a smile. The sunlight caresses his face and Illya can only just see the scars that line his nose and jaw. Illya had convinced him to go without the makeup today. It’s slow progress, but they’re getting somewhere.

As if he’d said it out loud, Napoleon turns around from the cart and sees Illya watching. His smile changes, a little softer, a little brighter. His body does not lie. Illya has always known this.

Gaby huffs and rolls her eyes. “That is not enough, Illya.”

“For you, maybe not,” Illya agrees easily.

Napoleon goes back to haggling again. He’s preparing for a great dinner, a celebration of their recent successes, with a leek soup side. Illya’s favorite, though he never told Napoleon that. He knows anyway.

Gaby frowns at him, but at the end she lets out a sigh, giving in. “Just know that if he ever hurts you–” She shuts down Illya’s attempt to protest with a glare. “Hurt you in a way you can’t come back from. Hurt you in a way you’re not prepared for. I know you won’t ever hurt him. But there is a line, and if he crosses it, I’ll be at the other side.”

Illya takes a slow breath, and then nods. It will never come that far.

Gaby nods back, satisfied.

“He loves me,” Illya says then. Because it couldn’t be left unspoken. “He loves me and that scares him. I’m prepared to wait. I’m not giving up on him. Why should I?”

Gaby watches him for a long moment and then picks her paper back up, murmuring under her breath something that sounds like _masochistic lovelorn asshole of an idiot._

Illya laughs, long and hard. The sound draws Napoleon to their table, because of course it does.

“Gaby, dear desert flower of our lives, how did you get the Red Peril to laugh?” Napoleon asks as he nears. His hand brushes Illya’s shoulder. “It’s a miracle of the highest order. For the longest time I thought the KGB trained it out of him. Put duct tape on his precious face to keep the corners of his lips straight and narrow.”

Gaby purses her lips and looks up. “I told him I would kill you if you hurt him too much.”

Napoleon tenses. Illya feels his heart rate increase from here and stops laughing. Gaby watches between the two of them, not a sliver of regret in her face.

Napoleon clears his throat, the smile he pastes on his face is fake. Illya wants to punch a wall. “Well, I better watch my step then, Peril. I don’t want to end up in a ditch.”

Gaby hums. “Smart decision.”

“I have to–” Napoleon says. He stands, motions vaguely to the market, and disappears.

Illya clenches his hand around his coffee cup. He wants to yell at Gaby. His arms are heavy. What if that was the moment that pushed Napoleon away for good? What if he doesn’t come back this time. Illya has been so _careful–_

But Gaby tilts her head to the side, pensive, and Illya knows she doesn’t deserve his anger or his fears.

“He meant that,” Gaby says, shaking Illya out of his panic. “He truly meant that.”

Something releases around Illya’s chest.

“Keep me updated,” she orders, and goes back to reading like nothing happened.

Illya looks up to the sky, waits his breathing slows down, and then scans the market again. He finds Napoleon within the second.

Napoleon smiles, automatic but true. He has his hands in his suit pockets, leaning against the side of an ancient building as people mill around him. He motions for Illya to come with the quirk of his lips, a raised eyebrow, a wordless request, like he’s done so many times.

Illya stands, and goes. He always will.

But this time, when Illya has his arms around him again, Napoleon doesn’t ask him to leave.

This time, when they part. Napoleon tells him a truth he’s always known.

This time, Illya smiles, kisses him, and stays.

_\------_

_If I love you, I am terrified._

_When I’m terrified, your love saves me._

_I love you._

_Does that scare you?_

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when someone recs amazing poetry to me. I wrote this today instead of studying. I keep doing this.... 
> 
> Hi y'all! I have too many ideas still in this fandom. See you around fairly soon again! Hope you liked my attempt at getting back into minimalism <3 
> 
> Oh and by the by, the last italicized part is mine, not a part of the original poem. In case you know it and were confused!
> 
> Beta'ed by the amazing Deinvati!


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